


my castle stands upon pillars of sand

by xxPayne



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Harry is a male queen because what even is history?, Impersonation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxPayne/pseuds/xxPayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis scrunches his eyebrows and looks down at the floor. “For one, I was told that he was young,” he says. “Younger than me, even. And, well, handsome.”<br/>A second passes before Louis adds on, “Not that all I care about is looks. It's just, I don't know. I built my hopes up, I guess. At least I've been told that he's sweet as pie,” he laughs, eyes sparkling. “I hope they didn't lie about that.”<br/>They didn't, Harry thinks, remembering how his mum likes to call him exactly that. But Louis doesn't know that Eric isn't actually Harry Styles; young, handsome, “sweet as pie” Harry Styles.</p><p> </p><p>(Harry Styles of Roseford is meant to marry Louis Tomlinson of Wildefort, but a man named Eric takes Harry's place.)<br/>(Or, Harry is the Goose Girl.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	my castle stands upon pillars of sand

**Author's Note:**

> So I used to love the Goose Girl story by the Grimm Brothers, and when all the Zayn drama happened, I just wanted to take my mind off things, so I wrote this based on that story (but it actually became a little different than that). I quickly read through it, but it's not beta'd.  
> (Also, I realize that Harry and Louis' relationship is very unrealistic, but that's kind of to be expected considering I based this on a fairy tale...)  
> Enjoy! :)

Harry has never thought about leaving Roseford. Since the day he was born, Harry has lived inside Roseford's safe, secure walls filled with safe, secure people. He knew he'd get married—what prince doesn't?—but he'd always thought that his future wife or husband would come to Roseford and live with him there. Never did it cross his mind that _he'd_ be forced out of his country into another, and straight into the throne.

“It's complicated,” Anne had said when Harry asked why he'd be ruling over another's country. “Your soon-to-be husband has requested that the wedding be held in Wildefort, in the forest where his father recently died in battle. Who are we to deny his request?”

Harry had let out a long huff, his eyes crossed in intense confusion and heartache at the thought of leaving _everything_ behind. “That doesn't explain why I'll be King—or, I guess, Queen.”

“Harry,” Anne had sighed, resting a gentle hand on her son's cheek. “It just has to be done. Gemma is already the next heir of Roseford, and Louis Tomlinson's—that's your husband, I'm not sure if I told you that yet—only siblings are a few girls not even in their teens yet. How are they to lead a country on their own? You and I both know that the responsible thing to do is send you to Wildefort to marry him and become the,” she'd paused, searching for the right word. “Well, Queen. Like you said.”

Just two days after he talked with his mum, Harry starts packing his bags for the journey to Wildefort; just a few items of clothing, the very special, small things he's gathered over the years, and lots of bread, since he'll be traveling on one horse for four days. Tears may spill down his cheeks as he chooses which parts of his life to bring with him, but he's always quick to wipe them away before anyone can see.

The sun starts to peek through the clouds just as Harry puts one last shirt in his bag. That's when his entire family filters into his chambers, eyes gleaming and bubbling with excitement. It seems that Harry is the only one feeling upset about himself going away.

“Be safe!” Gemma cries, all but pushing him down the stairs and out of the castle. His parents and others follow him out, waving and smiling.

They all go back inside before Harry can even think to say goodbye. Falada, his loyal horse, is waiting for him along with another horse that he's never seen before. At that moment, a man looking a bit older than Harry strides towards him with a polite smile.

“Hello,” the man says. “You're Harry Styles, correct?”

He keeps speaking after Harry nods. “Wonderful. I'm Eric. Your parents have asked me to accompany you on your journey to Wildefort.”

This is news to Harry, but everything in the last few days has been, and he's too emotionally exhausted to care, so he nods and mounts Falada.

They ride for so long that Harry’s legs go numb before they finally come upon a stream. Harry has been parched for the last decade, he's sure—his tongue feels like a rough stone sitting inside his mouth. “Eric,” he says, digging a cup out of his bag. “Could you fill this with water for me?”

“I'm not your servant,” Eric snaps. “If you want water, you can go to the stream yourself.”

Harry thinks he almost falls off Falada with the force of his shock. Fear courses through his veins like a wildfire while his thoughts run rampant— _this was a bad idea; I want to go home; I don't want to be married; Eric is going to kill me; what if my mum hadn't even told him to come with me and he's some random stranger?_  
Cautiously, Harry climbs down to the river and fills his cup with water. It tastes so sweet, and he's instantly refreshed, but he fills it up three more times and downs every drop so that he'll be able to ride longer without stopping next time.

The sound of a horse neighing fills the air, making Harry jump and spin around to face them. Falada is kicking the ground, nearly frantic with her movements. For a second, Harry thinks that an enemy is approaching, but then he sees that Eric is climbing on top of her. _Harry's_ horse.

“Ex _cuse_ me?” he gasps, racing over towards them and placing a comforting hand on Falada's neck. “Who said you could ride Falada?”

Eric chuckles condescendingly, his shadow looming over top of Harry. In the sinking sun's minimal rays, Eric's features are contorted across his face like a monster's. Wishing he'd never left Roseford, Harry pitifully mounts the horse next to Falada and starts down the trail they were on before he stopped at the stream.

The day ends, but Eric insists they must keep riding. Falada and the other horse are stopping to rest every few minutes, but still Eric orders them to continue. Another stream—bigger this time, roaring with not one but two fairly large waterfalls—comes up on Harry's right hand side, which makes him slow the horse down and gasp in relief. Without thinking, and used to his people doing things for him, Harry says, “Eric, could you fill this cup with water?” and holds out the same cup he'd handed him last time.  
Rage swirls through Eric's eyes as he does indeed grab the cup—just so he can throw it down and direct Falada to stomp on it. Harry wants to cry, if not for himself then for his horse, who probably feels horrible about breaking his favorite cup.

“I'm not your servant,” Eric says, like last time. Spit flies out of his mouth onto poor Harry's face. “You have no cup now. See what happens when you order me around?” he waits for the boy to nod before continuing. “Now go, drink from the stream.”

Harry blinks and bows his head, daring to say, “But I have no cu—”

“Drink!” Eric barks, the veins in his neck popping out with the force of his yelling.

The water still tastes sweet and instantly refreshes him, but Harry is humiliated at having to lay next to the stream and throw his face in the current just to drink it. It seems like Eric _likes_ watching him embarrassed, because he's smiling and his eyes are glinting happily. All of the sudden, Harry wonders why Eric hasn't needed water or food this whole trip, and fears for the worst—witchcraft. Harry is traveling with an insane witch.

He knows it would be a death wish to say anything about it to Eric, so he closes his eyes and takes a few more sips of water before saying, “Can we continue now?”

“No,” Eric says, chuckling. “First, I require a change of clothes.”

As he's been taught to do, Harry respectfully turns around and waits for Eric to tell him he's done changing. All he hears is laughter though, a raucous noise that gets louder and louder and impossibly louder. “You _fool_ ,” Eric spits at Harry's back. “It's your clothes that I require. Nothing I have brought with me is worthy enough.”

By the time Harry has found his voice again, Eric has already dismounted Falada and is trying to pull off the vibrantly colored clothes Harry is wearing.  
“Stop!” Harry mutters futilely, imagining himself back in the castle, getting new clothes made for him by his wonderful, caring tailors. Not here, on his way to be married to a man he's never met—that is, if he gets there in one piece first. Somehow he thinks that if Eric had anything to do with it, he wouldn't be getting to Wildefort alive. He can only hope that he really does have angels watching over him, like his mum used to say when he was small.

When Harry is naked and blushing in the middle of the dark, scary forest, Eric takes off his own clothes and puts on the princely attire. It's hard to admit, but Harry thinks Eric really does look like a prince.

“You will not speak a word of this to anyone,” Eric says, gripping Harry by the skin on his shoulder. “You tell and it'll be the last thing you ever do. Don't forget that I know where your kingdom is, where your family is, and where you're going.”

Harry nods frantically because it's the only thing he can do. He can only imagine how much damage Eric could do to his family if he wanted to.

The sickening feeling he gets doesn't leave his stomach, and is only made worse when Eric slips his own old clothes over Harry's body.

The night is spent riding with no breaks for Falada and the other horse to rest. Harry hasn't slept in nearly two days and it’s starting to mess with his mind. Twice now he's started to drift off while the horse is still running, which results in Harry tumbling to the ground and having to endure Eric's harsh comments and laughter.

Wildefort can be seen in the distance at half noon the next day. It's bigger than Roseford—Harry can't even see the whole country from the highest hill they ride on. It looks nice enough, though, so he thinks it won't be so bad, even if he won't have that same sense of community he had with his own small country.

At the gates of Wildefort, a guard asks them who they are and, before Harry can respond, Eric says, “I am Harry Styles of Roseford, and this is my companion. You may take him as a servant if you wish.”

The guard nods and lets them through, but Harry stays seated on the horse in a confused stupor. He nearly says something, but the look Eric shoots him reminds Harry of the danger he'd be bringing on his own family if he tells anyone the truth. So he keeps his head down and enters Wildefort, praying that someone will make this right.  
As soon as the castle comes into view, Eric throws a fake smile onto his face and prepares to act like the prince. Meanwhile, Harry doesn't have to fake the frown on his own face while he prepares to act like a servant.

“Harry Styles?” the guard at the front of the castle asks, looking at the real Harry.

“No, sir,” Harry says, desperately hoping that he can pull off this lie. He points to Eric and says, with the most sincerity he can muster, “This is Harry Styles. I am only a servant.”  
The doors creak as they're opened, and a strong gust of wind slams them shut behind Harry and Eric. Inside the castle is extravagant—a giant religious mural adorns the ceiling and it stretches across the entire front room, fancier than anything Harry's dreamed of. Gold framed mirrors and decorations remind him of his own castle, which looks very similar to Wildefort's. It hits him then that he's not even going to be staying in this castle—Eric is the prince now. Harry is just the servant.

He can hear Falada and the other horse on the other side of the door making a great deal of noise. All Harry wants to do is go out there and calm her down, but he knows he's not allowed to.

All of the sudden, Falada's noises stop.

“What just happened?” Harry asks, alarmed. He looks at the door like he can see through it.

“Didn't you hear?” Eric smirks before morphing his face into condescending concern. “Falada caused me a great deal of trouble on the journey to Wildefort—I've ordered her beheaded.”

Harry stumbles backwards, straight into a potted plant that rests in the corner. It falls, shattering on the marble flooring. “No!” he cries, spinning around to desperately yank open the door. “No, you can't kill her!”

It's too late. Falada's head lies on the pathway, mouth frozen open in an action that so clearly shows panic. “No, no, no,” Harry mutters, tears falling down his eyes faster than he can wipe them away. “How could they do this to you, Falada?”

This whole time, Harry half expects Falada to open her eyes and be _fine_ , but she so obviously isn't.

“Excuse me,” a guard says, watching the scene with confusion. “Aren't you just a servant? I was told this was Sir Styles' horse.”

With a tear-filled face and a face covered with anguish, Harry nods and swallows up the last bit of his pride to say, “Yes, I'm sorry, this was Sir Styles' horse. I was the one that took care of it in the stables every day, though, and we formed a close bond.”

The guard nods and says, “Someone is coming to clean this up, please say your goodbyes quickly.”

“Please, sir,” Harry begs, leaning his forehead on the ground to prove his desperation. “Do not throw her in with the rubbish. I beg you, please mount her somewhere only I can see her.”

Hesitation passes over the guard's face, but it passes quickly when Harry pulls a few coins out of his bag. “Fine,” he says. “I'll have her mounted on the barn door.”  
When Harry goes back inside the castle, Eric is gone from the front room. Someone new is standing there, though. He's beautiful, with dark, feathery hair and excellent posture. Surely he's royalty—that sort of posture doesn't come from the hard labor of a servant.

As he's seen his own servants do to himself, Harry bows and extends his arm as a courteous gesture.

“Hello?” the beautiful man asks. “Who are you?”

Harry looks around to make sure that he is who this man is talking to. “I'm Har—Er, uh, I'm Eric. I came on the trip with Harry Styles. He's the man that's marrying—”

“Believe me,” the man interrupts. “I know who he's marrying. I'm Louis Tomlinson.”

Once again, Harry trips backwards, nearly falling over onto one of the pretty, decorative dressers that leans against the wall. He quickly stands up again and apologizes profusely before saying, “Your Majesty, are you not happy with Sir Styles?”

Louis scrunches his eyebrows and looks down at the floor. “For one, I was told that he was young,” he says. “Younger than me, even. And, well, handsome."

A second passes before Louis adds on, “Not that all I care about is looks. It's just, I don't know. I built my hopes up, I guess. At least I've been told that he's sweet as pie,” he laughs, eyes sparkling. “I hope they didn't lie about that.”

 _They didn't_ , Harry thinks, remembering how his mum likes to call him exactly that. But Louis doesn't know that Eric isn't actually Harry Styles; young, handsome, _sweet as pie_ Harry Styles.

 

“Anyway,” Louis says, shaking his head. “What are you here for?”

It's terrible having to grit his teeth and lie right to his supposed-to-be-husband's face, but he does it, knowing that his mum and Gemma are in trouble if he doesn't. “I'm a servant. Someone is supposed to assign me a job, if you have one.”

Just then, a woman wearing servant clothing comes into the room and says, “David was just telling me he needs someone to take care of the geese during the day. I'll show you where he works.”

When Harry doesn't immediately follow her out the front of the castle, she turns around and says, “Come on. I don't have to help you, you know. I could just kick you out onto the streets!”

Harry is terribly scared already, and it doesn't help when a pretty, sweet looking girl is threatening to make him homeless in a country he's never been to before. Though he'd never dreamed it would ever be this way, Harry nods and follows the girl into the servant's quarters without looking back at his gorgeous, would-be husband.

 

-

Louis knows—has known since practically the day he was born—that his job relies almost as much on who he marries as how he reigns over his kingdom. Still, he can’t help be somewhat of a hopeless romantic in that he always wanted to marry someone out of love, not diplomacy. Whenever he thinks of this, he reminds himself that, one, it’s his duty, and two, he was lucky enough to be allowed to marry a _man_ at all—beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

The thing about Harry, his soon to be husband, is that he doesn’t seem to be too interested in anything or anyone. It’s like he’s disconnected from, well, everything. He hasn’t written to any family, hasn’t even talked about any family, which is a surprise considering how the Styles’ family have been known to be one of the closest royal families out there.

When he tries to ask Harry about his sister, Gemma, or his mum, Anne, it’s like he just shuts down. He’ll stumble out an impersonal answer (“they’re really great people” and “I can’t wait to see them again”) and then point the conversation towards something else, usually the upcoming wedding and, strangely enough, when their bank accounts will be merged.

Louis isn’t stupid. He’s ready for Harry to admit that he’s only marrying for money, not love or even attraction. That isn’t to say that it won’t hurt, knowing that he’s giving his everything to a man that probably won’t ever say ‘I love you,’ but it’s better than dancing around the fact like Harry is doing now.

Eric, the new curly-haired servant, isn’t helping any.

All Louis can think about when he sees Eric is: why, _why_ couldn’t this have been my husband? Which is quite ridiculous considering he’s only conversed with the man for a total of, probably, an hour. But he feels like he’s known him forever, or at least longer than a day. Although his mind is screaming ‘evacuate, evacuate,’ his heart is screaming ‘you like Eric, you like Eric a lot’ which is _bad_. Infidelity is still punishable by law, and Louis has little doubt that it would be something he’d be forced to give up the throne over if his people found out.

Louis would never cheat, but he has to wonder if it would really be considered cheating for him to get love from someone other than his husband, his husband that will likely never give him love himself.

 

-

Over the next few days, Harry learns three things: One, servants do so much more work than Harry thought they did. Two, Eric plays a very convincing Harry Styles, if the fact that no one in the castle is catching on to his scheme yet is anything to go by. Three, geese poop is not a pleasant smell.

He desperately wants to write his mum a letter, but that would give away his identity to everyone when they see he's addressing Queen Anne as his mum. So he forces himself to keep working, pretending that he's nothing more than a poor servant, though it kills him a little bit more every hour.

At some point, the days blur together and he finds himself hoping, _praying_ that he'll get another chance to go inside the castle and maybe cross paths with the blue-eyed King. It's a stretch—lots of coincidences would have to happen—so Harry doesn't let his hopes get up too high. Still, every time David, the other servant, says, “Go clean the stables,” or “Let out the geese,” or “Go get more hay,” Harry has to grit his teeth and try to keep the never-ending tears at bay.

One day, though, Harry does see Louis again. It's when he's unfortunately covered, head to toe, in geese poop because three or four geese conspired against poor Harry and flew in circles over his head while they rained poop down on him like a waterfall. Just when he gets done thanking the Heavens that no one saw this embarrassment, Harry hears soft laughter coming from the left side of the field. He whips around in horror, thinking it might be Eric, coming back to mock his new position as a servant. It's not, which is somehow better _and_ worse.

It's Louis, and he looks more tired than he did the first time Harry saw him. Ridiculously, Harry finds himself worrying about what's going wrong—is it Eric? Has he done something to hurt Louis?

Before he can even think about it, Harry is blurting out, “Are you okay?”

Louis looks at him curiously for a while, hands reaching out to help Harry hold up a bucket of water that he's accidentally spilling. “Why wouldn't I be okay?” Louis asks. “Is something wrong?”

One of the geese that's wandering around makes a noise and starts running in circles around the two princes. Harry laughs, using his foot to gently push it towards the other geese. Then he looks up at Louis and shakes his head, “No, no, nothing's wrong. Just, uh, is Eri—um, Harry Styles—is he, you know, good to you?”

Louis laughs like he's kidding. “Harry?” he says incredulously. “Mate, every single person that told me he's _sweet as pie_ was lying.”

This is terrible news to Harry, who's been worried about Louis ever since he met him. “What does he do? He hasn't hurt you, has he?”

“Well, I wouldn't say _hurt_ ,” Louis says, finally seeming serious, what with his deep frown. “It's just—okay, he's not the nicest person in the world. We were supposed to share a bed last night, but he insisted that he sleep in a guest chamber because he's 'not gay' or something. Why would he come marry me, a _man_ , if he isn't even gay?”  
The word tumbles out of Harry's mouth faster than he can stop it, “Money.”

“Money?” Louis repeats, his frown deepening.

Harry knows that it wasn't the right thing to say—if Louis starts to catch onto what's really going on, Eric may hurt Harry's family. Then he thinks about how Louis must be hurting, being forced to marry that man, and he'll have to deal with him for the rest of his life. Harry's mind feels like it's going to war with itself.

“Never mind,” Harry says eventually. He can't risk his family's lives just to save a stranger from living with the wrong husband. “I've got work to do here, your Majesty. May I be excused from this conversation?”

Louis glances at him oddly, but nods anyway. He stares at Harry's back as he walks towards the geese that are squawking loudly and thinks that he wouldn't mind if _Eric_ was his husband.

 

-

Every day, Harry walks through the barn doors where Falada is mounted on the wall. Seeing his horse there, dead, all because of Eric makes Harry furious, but there's nothing he can do. Anything he could possibly say would just be called a lie by Eric, and then Harry could be sentenced to die.

So whenever he sees Falada hanging in the barn, Harry talks to her, hoping that she can hear him somehow.

“Oh, Falada,” Harry's voice is thick with unshed tears. “How did this happen?”

The air in Harry's lungs gets let out in one large breath. He tries to speak again, if only to comfort himself, but a lump makes its way into his throat before he can think about it. Something allows him to keep talking, to say to Falada, “Mum would be so sad to see what Eric has done to us.”

A rustling sound in the corner of the barn catches Harry's attention. It sounds like leaves crunching under someone's feet. He prays that there is no one in the barn, but then a similar sound follows it.

It's silent for a second, but Harry is so frightened that he runs out of the barn anyway.

 

-

Louis comes to see Harry again that night. He looks like he wants to say something, but he stays silent, watching the geese run around and squawk at each other. Harry doesn't see him, too distracted with trying to scrape mold off of a rarely used horse saddle hanging on the wall. Though he doesn't have a clear view of him, Louis can tell that Harry is crying. The only indication is his soft little whimpers and hiccups and shaking shoulders.

Even though all Louis wants to do is enter the barn and give Harry a long hug, he turns around and runs back to the castle.

 

-

The next day, Harry goes to see Falada despite being worried that someone heard him talking to her the previous day. Although he wants to cry again, he doesn't.  
“I wish that I could talk to my mum,” Harry says. It just feels _right_ to talk to Falada, even if she can't hear him, so he continues. “But people would wonder why I'm in correspondence with Queen Anne and then—well, I don't quite know what would happen, but I assume that it's nothing good. They'll think I'm lying about her being my mum and—throw me in prison for impersonation, probably.”

Harry imagines what his life would be like right now if he'd never let Eric come with him to Wildefort. He'd be with Louis, Falada would be alive, and Harry wouldn't be covered in goose shit, that's for sure. The sinking feeling that's been in his heart since the moment he laid eyes on Eric is back with a vengeance—Harry is just now realizing that he'll be a servant for the rest of his life. He'll never be Harry Styles of Roseford again.

There's no one to tell it to, so Harry tells it to Falada, “I'm Harry Styles of Roseford, I'm Harry Styles of Roseford, I'm Harry Styles of Roseford and I'm _not_ a fucking servant.”  
Nothing happens. Harry thought, for one stupid second, that maybe he’d feel better, or that someone would hear it and—and what? If someone did hear it, they’d throw him in jail. Why would they believe him?

With a quick shake of the head, Harry pinches himself on the arm as if to wake himself from a nightmare and then sets off to take a well-deserved nap.

 

-

“Here, Harry Styles, put these clothes on,” Louis says almost shyly as he throws the curly-haired _real_ Harry a pile of regal clothing.

The boy freezes where he’s sweeping up hay from the barn floors. “Wh-What? You must be mistaken, your Majesty, my name is Eric.”

Fear courses through Harry’s veins, fear of being found out.

“No,” The king shakes his head. “It’s quite obvious that the man in my bed-chambers right now is not the promised Harry Styles,” he says, and holds up a hand when Harry tries to interrupt. “You’re the only other person that came with the man, and I, uh,” Louis fumbles, cheeks tinging pink. “I heard you talking to that horse on the wall last night.”  
Stumbling backwards, a nervous habit of his, Harry shoves a knuckle into his mouth to keep from doing something embarrassing like sob or scream or gasp. “That’s—That isn’t—You—I’m not!”

Louis is confused by Harry’s reaction. This isn’t what he’d expected—he’d expected Harry to sigh in relief and jump into his arms and say, “Finally!” or something akin to that of a story book. Not this, a distrustful, frightened look in Harry’s eyes and his pale skin paling even further.

“But—” Louis says, grappling for something intelligent. Then it clicks, that maybe Harry isn’t safe with someone else knowing the truth. “Oh,” he can’t help but say aloud. “Eric, I—I mean, Harry, I won’t let _Eric_ do anything to you. This man has committed treason. If the judge doesn’t lock him up for good, then I’ll do it myself.”

Although Harry seems to relax a bit, he doesn’t stop staring intently at the ground.

“So you’re—You’re Harry Styles, then,” Louis gasps, the reality just now setting in. “I was supposed to marry you.”

“Sorry if that’s a disappointment,” Harry sighs, glancing into Louis’ eyes before ducking down again so that his hair covers his own. “I’m not anything special.”

Shaking his head like he’s in pure disbelief, Louis says, “It’s the best news I’ve had in _weeks_. Now put the clothes on, please, so we can go punish Eric together,” he once again tries to give Harry the clothes, and this time he takes them. Louis can’t help the smile that overtakes his face when Harry, blushing bright red, tells him that he can’t exactly get dressed in front of him.

They make their way back to the castle quietly, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Harry is overwhelmed, looking at all of his surroundings in a new light, now that he knows he won’t be stuck inside the barn for the rest of his life. He notices the blooming flowers and the laughing children playing a game that involves a lot of shouting and he notices how bright Louis’ eyes are when they reflect the light and how his face is stained with tiny freckles. Before he can think about it, he’s asking, “Can I hold your hand now?”  
Louis laughs, albeit fondly, and holds out his hand for Harry to grasp. “So much for not drawing attention,” he says when one of the castle’s many servants takes in a sharp breath of air at the sight.

Aside from the servant and a few other people, Louis and Harry make it to the castle without being stared at.

Louis looks around for a moment and then says, “I’ve already told the judge about our situation and they put Eric in the dungeon,” then he laughs. “It’s not really a dungeon, but that sounds much more treacherous, which is what he deserves,” he realizes he’s going on a tangent, and continues. “So you don’t have to worry about him—he can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

It’s such a relief for Harry, who has been constantly worrying for his oblivious family more than himself. If it weren’t for them, he may have done something foolish like told the truth early on. Now, with Louis by his side, he’s so immensely happy that he’d never tried to make an accusation. Because, Harry knows, good things come to those who are patient.

 

-

In next week, the judge hears official statements from King Louis, Prince Harry, and Eric, who, after an hour of being yelled at, finally breaks down and admits that he isn’t actually Harry Styles. Immediately, the judge sentences him to death.

Harry isn’t happy, that’s the wrong word, but he’s definitely relieved. At once, he writes his mum a letter assuring him of his safety, but doesn’t mention a word of Eric—he knows that his mum would insist he come back home and he quite likes Wildefort now he knows he can explore it all he wants. Then he makes his way outside, enjoying the light spring breeze. After a while, Louis comes out too, sitting next to him on the bench quietly. “Are you okay?”

Harry says yes and he finds that he means it.

“The wedding will be nice,” Harry says off-handedly, because he loves how he can make Louis smile every time he mentions their marriage. “Perfect weather for one.”  
“You don’t mind it being in the woods, do you?” Louis asks. “I know I insisted upon it when I was talking with Queen Anne, but we don’t have to get married there. I want you to be happy with the location as well.”

Harry laces their fingers together and watches a bird swoop down and steal a worm right out of another bird’s beak. “The woods will be perfect, with all the fresh leaves and flowers. Beautiful.”

 

-

The wedding _is_ beautiful, if not surprisingly quaint. His mum and sister attend, but all the rest of the guests are from Louis’ kingdom. They’d had an arch made for them to stand under, and Louis’ tiny twin sisters pave the isle with bright red rose petals. When the ceremony is over with and everyone is making to return to the castle, a gaggle of geese run, squawking ridiculously, towards the group of people. Tears fill Harry’s eyes at the sight of the animals, a reminder of what his life was destined to be when he first arrived at Wildefort, but when Louis worriedly asks him what’s wrong, he just shakes his head and says, “I’m just happy. Happy that everything worked out and that I’m here with you. That this actually happened.”

He’s so unbelievably lucky, considering the way he thought his future was going to go. Now Eric is gone and his family is safe and he’s married to Louis, who he thinks it won’t be a problem for him to fall in love with eventually—he feels like he’s been a little bit in love with him since the second he saw him. In Harry’s mind, nothing could be better, and he feels filled to the brim with happiness, finally.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it (or didn't!), consider writing a comment? Every comment, no matter how short, gives me encouragement and inspirations for many fics to come. Thank you! :)  
> homelyrics.tumblr.com


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